


Hope is not a strategy...

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Friendship, Fête des Mousquetaires Challenge, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hope might not be a strategy, but it was necessary to their existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope is not a strategy...

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place early in season one.

_“Luck is not a factor. Hope is not a strategy. Fear is not an option.”_ ~ James Cameron

 

 

“Is it time yet?” d’Artagnan asked, and Athos cringed at the words, the sound of which were as painful to him as the most violent, offensive shriek.

 

With forced calm, the older man swallowed his annoyance, reminding himself that the Gascon at his side was a mere boy, d’Artagnan’s exposure to soldiering limited and his patience in short supply. Keeping his tone even, Athos replied, “Not yet.”

 

The Gascon huffed from his place at the window and seconds later he’d stalked away, leaving the older man as the lone sentry to watch over the road and the woods beyond as they waited for their friends to rejoin them. It had been a difficult decision to split up, but Aramis’ assessment was disarmingly accurate, and Athos could not have in good conscience argued against the recommendation that he and d’Artagnan stay behind and wait in the small shack they currently occupied. Porthos and Aramis would be unencumbered by injury, and would be able to move swiftly and stealthily to scope out their target, giving himself and the Gascon time to rest.

 

Athos had bristled at the suggestion that he should not be left alone, but a stern look from Porthos had him biting his tongue, recognizing that it was not only for his benefit but the young man’s as well. Though d’Artagnan possessed raw talent, he had yet to temper it with the training and experience the others possessed, and it would be foolish to risk his life against an unknown enemy. Their pairings favored everyone else’s safety as well, leaving Aramis and Porthos to watch each other’s backs since they had the more dangerous task.

 

When Athos had realized the validity of Aramis’ suggestion, he’d breathed out a frustrated sigh of acquiescence, leaving it to the marksman to explain their decision to the headstrong Gascon. Predictably, d’Artagnan had protested his lack of involvement until Porthos had indicated the older man with a tilt of his head, and the young man’s face had morphed from anger to determination. On their way to their current location, they’d encountered a sub-set of the bandits they were now pursued. In the resulting skirmish, Athos had taken a pistol ball to the thigh, and they’d had time to do nothing more than dig the ball out and hastily wrap the wound.

 

The older man had insisted he was healthy enough to continue, but Aramis’ concerned expression made it clear that theirs was a stopgap measure at best. It was important that they complete their reconnaissance mission as quickly as possible so Athos could be returned to the regiment where his leg would be properly cleaned and stitched. The ramshackle abode around them had seemed a Godsend at the time, the medic pouncing on it as an excuse to leave Athos behind while he and Porthos completed the final part of their plan. Of course, no one had mentioned to the older man that he would essentially be trapped with a Gascon whose temperament resembled that of a hyperactive puppy.

 

d’Artagnan let out another aggrieved sigh and Athos bit his lip to prevent the poisonous words that sprang to mind from escaping. He closed his eyes in an effort to keep the dull throbbing behind his eyes from escalating and listened to the Gascon’s pacing, opening them several seconds later when he heard the footsteps moving in his direction and then stop. d’Artagnan was staring at him and Athos raised a questioning eyebrow in reply. “Are you alright?” the Gascon asked, lines of worry evident on his face as he peered at the older man.

 

“Fine,” Athos dryly replied, stilling the hand that ached to reach for the wound on his leg.

 

d’Artagnan held his friend’s gaze for a moment longer before giving a short nod and positioning himself next to the window. Standing slightly off to one side as he retook his earlier spot, he asked, “How much longer do you think?”

 

Reminding himself that he was not actually dealing with a young child, Athos answered, “Not much longer.”

 

“Hmm,” the Gascon hummed, falling quiet for nearly a minute before voicing his next question. “What if they get caught?”

 

Pulling from a well of patience that he unaware he possessed, Athos replied, “We shall just have to hope that they don’t.”

 

d’Artagnan dipped his head in agreement although his expression showed otherwise. One, two, three - Athos began to count in his head, certain that the young man was not yet done. He’d counted to six by the time the Gascon spoke again. “Hope is not a strategy.”

 

Athos’ eyebrows quirked in surprise. While annoying, the statement was not only accurate but remarkably insightful, demonstrating a maturity beyond the young man's years. It demonstrated a deeper insight that recognized the need to meld planning and action with the expectation of success, providing the confidence needed in order to take action. The revelation made him examine the Gascon in a different light, the image of an impatient, whiny youth replaced with the concern of a man who understood the dangers of what the other two men were doing.

 

Athos nodded thoughtfully, carefully choosing his words before he replied, “What do you suggest we do?”

 

d’Artagnan looked momentarily surprised by the question before regaining his balance and turning his mind to an answer. He recognized that his strength came from action and, in far too many instances, an overconfidence that had him running towards danger before fully formulating a plan. Despite that, he was wise enough to understand that plans were necessary; he just never seemed to have time enough to think of any. In this case, the tables were turned, and the only thing he had in abundance was time as they waited for their friends to return.

 

Furrowing his brow, the Gascon let his instincts guide him, immediately discarding his initial desire to simply go after the two men. He knew that Aramis had made the suggestion for them to stay behind not only to give Athos time to regain some of his strength, but also to ensure that part of their group remained safe and able to complete the mission if their initial foray into the bandits’ territory failed. The realization prompted the young man to consider how he would complete the task if the two men failed.

 

He was tempted to ask Athos for his input, but a glance in the older man’s direction showed him focused on the surrounding area as he kept his gaze firmly fixed outside the small window. A closer look revealed the lines of pain around the Musketeer’s eyes and the light sheen of sweat at his temples, belying the pain he was experiencing from the hole in his thigh. As tempting as it was to delve into his friend’s substantial experience, d’Artagnan felt it would be wrong; Athos had, after all, posed the question and expected the Gascon to provide some recommendations.

 

Settling himself more comfortably against the wall at his side, d’Artagnan let his eyes rest on the scene outside while his mind mulled over what suggestions he might offer.

* * *

“This is stupid,” Porthos whispered, his deep voice carrying no matter his volume.

 

Aramis flinched in response, thanking their lucky stars that the wind was carrying their voices away rather than toward the bandits’ camp.

 

With infinite patience, Aramis replied, “It’s not stupid; it’s simply _inconvenient_.” Even as the words left his lips, he was wincing to himself, recognizing how insufficient they were in adequately describing their current predicament.

 

Porthos had no qualms about letting his friend know how he felt about the other man’s understatement, and he snorted, thankfully more quietly than normal. “And I suppose the next thing you’ll try and convince me of is that you meant for this to happen.”

 

Aramis had to work hard not to roll his eyes at his friend, even as he turned his gaze downwards, regarding his trapped foot with disgust. They’d been doing so well as they’d stealthily approached the encampment, successfully skirting the handful of guards they’d seen on patrol and getting sufficiently close to scout the camp, providing them with the necessary intelligence to report back so that a full-scale attack could be launched.

 

Their spirits buoyed by their quick success, they’d been more aware of their surroundings than the ground, and Aramis had failed to spot the gopher hole that now held him until it was too late. Despite their combined best efforts, the marksman’s foot was well and truly stuck, and in spite of his assurances to the contrary, he was not fine, feeling the telltale swelling of injury pressing painfully against the hard-packed dirt that held him fast.

 

“Fine,” the marksman sighed, “it is stupid.” The words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them, despite his determination to keep the thought to himself. Noting the gloating look on Porthos’ face, he groaned.

 

The sound of pain had the larger man’s expression immediately turning serious as he asked, “Does it hurt?”

 

In for a penny, in for a pound, Aramis thought to himself as he grudgingly admitted, “A little.”

 

Porthos returned his attention to the hole, again testing for any give by tugging gently on the marksman’s leg. An errant twist of his ankle had Aramis yelping in pain, and Porthos threw a look of apology at his friend. Straightening, he said, “I think I need to go and get help to free you.”

 

“No,” Aramis said quickly, realizing a moment later how desperate he sounded. “I mean, it’s too dangerous. I could be discovered before you get back, and then our opportunity for a surprise attack will be gone.”

 

Porthos seemed to consider his friend’s words as he returned his eyes to the ground, examining their situation from every possible angle to identify a solution. Deciding on a course of action he addressed the marksman, laying a reassuring hand on Aramis’ upper arm as he explained, “I need to go get something, but I’ll be right back. Promise you’ll wait here for me.”

 

This time, Aramis did roll his eyes in exasperation as he muttered, “As if I have any choice.”

 

Realizing his slip, Porthos corrected himself, “I mean, stay out of sight and don’t get caught.”

 

The marksman could see the sincere concern shining in his friend’s eyes, and the last thing he wanted to do was to add to it. With a ghost of a smile, he replied, “Don’t worry; I’ll be fine.”

 

With a short nod and then a glance around, Porthos skulked away, becoming lost in the tangle of trees around them almost immediately. With nothing better to do, Aramis lowered himself carefully to the ground, finding a position that put the least amount of stress on his sore leg. His left hand automatically came down to gingerly massage the point above his ankle, unable to reach down any lower because of the snug fit of the dirt pressing against his boot.

 

He let out a frustrated sigh, giving a minor shake of his head as he contemplated the absurdity of the situation in which he know found himself; the feeling was tinged with a heavy dose of guilt at the fact that Porthos had had to depart on his own. While logic told him that the other man would be fine, Aramis couldn’t help but be annoyed at the fact that Porthos was now risking his life in an attempt to help him. Unaware of what he was doing, he began to repeat the same words in his head, over and over, as if they could protect the larger man, “I hope he’s alright; I hope he’s alright; _please_ , let him be alright.”

 

He startled when a hand landed lightly on his shoulder, his head swivelling so quickly that he nearly unbalanced himself, Porthos’ strong grip catching him and stopping his sideways descent. In mock irritation, Aramis hissed, “What took you so long?”

 

Nonplussed at the marksman’s reaction, Porthos grinned widely as he held his prize up for the other man to see. The large man held a nearly bursting water skin, and Aramis felt his annoyance swell as he asked, “You couldn’t wait until we got back to the others to have a drink?”

 

Porthos shook his head as he kneeled, opening the skin and pouring water on the dirt around the marksman’s foot. Aramis watched, still not understanding, as the large man waited for the dry ground to absorb the liquid before adding more, the dirt around his boot gradually softening. Porthos’ fingers probed and pressed at the ground and slowly the pressure on Aramis’ ankle eased, the marksman releasing a sigh of relief as some of his discomfort ebbed.

 

“Bet that feels better,” Porthos remarked knowledgably, having read the signs of pain on his friend’s face. Aramis simply nodded as he waited for the larger man to continue.

 

Within minutes, the ground had softened sufficiently that Porthos was able to start moving some of the muddied dirt outwards, revealing more of Aramis’ ankle. Several minutes more and the space was large enough that, with Porthos’ help, the marksman’s foot slipped free. Aramis nearly groaned with relief, but stopped himself with the reminder that they were still close enough to the bandits’ location that they might be overheard.

 

Porthos smiled happily as he watched some of the pain smooth from Aramis’ face, and he gave the other man a moment to compose himself before rising and extending a hand. The marksman took it gratefully and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, gingerly shifting some of his weight onto the injured limb. A sharp pain ignited in his ankle and shot up his leg, causing Aramis to sag and almost drop, but Porthos held him tight, already changing his grip in order to duck under the marksman’s shoulder. “Can you walk?” he asked, peering at Aramis’ face for any trace of deception.

 

The marksman gave a short nod as he bit out, “I hope so.”

 

His response pulled a sympathetic, but determined, look from the larger man who said, “Luckily, we’re not just relying on hope and you’ve got my broad shoulder to lean on as well.”

 

Aramis chuffed softly with humour, grateful for more than his friend’s inherent ability to lighten the mood. “Ready?” Porthos asked, and he received another curt nod in reply. As quickly as they were able, they retraced their steps, eager to be reunited with their friends who would surely be worried by their long absence. 

* * *

“I’d get you back onto your horse and see you off safely. Then I’d follow Aramis and Porthos to try and collect the intelligence they were meant to gather,” d’Artagnan suddenly exclaimed.

 

The unexpected nature of the Gascon’s pronouncement startled Athos from his thoughts, and he spared a short look towards the young man before continuing to stare out the window. With the older man’s silence, d’Artagnan felt the need to explain. “That’s what I’d do,” he carried on, beginning to feel uncertain at his friend’s lack of response. “If Aramis and Porthos don’t return, that is.”

 

Athos considered the young man’s suggestion, approving of the underlying commitment to both complete the assigned mission while also getting word to the garrison so that anyone captured could be rescued. The recommendation demonstrated a willingness to wait for reinforcements, rather than charging into an unknown situation in a foolhardy attempt to free their friends, a decision which would have been difficult for anyone let alone someone as unseasoned as d’Artagnan.

 

Nodding slowly, Athos said, “A plan that would allow for word to reach the garrison, while still allowing for the chance to complete the mission.” Deliberately pausing for a moment, he asked, “And what of Aramis and Porthos?”

 

From the corner of his eye, the older man could see d’Artagnan bite his lip as he was wont to do when uncomfortable. He had only a few moments to wait before the young man replied, “They would have to be patient until more men arrived and who could mount a proper rescue.” He left their shared fear of _“assuming they’re still alive”_ unspoken.

 

The Gascon began to fidget uncomfortably as he waited to hear Athos’ thoughts, the older man’s expression frustratingly inscrutable. He wanted so badly to impress this man, although he really didn’t understand the reasons why, and it was almost physically painful to have to sit, waiting and hoping that the other man agreed with him. Finally, Athos spoke, “A sound plan and the one with the greatest likelihood of success.”

 

The words washed over d’Artagnan like a warm breeze and he could feel his shoulders relaxing. Buoyed by the Musketeer’s approval, he extended another thought, “Do you think we’ll have to use it?”

 

The Gascon could see the immediate tensing of Athos’ jaw muscles as the older man considered the need to leave his friends behind. Discussing a plan was one thing, but acting on it was a completely different matter. The soldier in him reminded him that it had indeed been a long time since Aramis and Porthos had left, and the time to make a decision was drawing near. The brother in him warred with his logical side, wanting nothing more than to give the two men more time in case they returned on their own. He looked over at d’Artagnan and saw the same debate being waged in the young man’s head, but this was a decision that could not be placed on the Gascon’s shoulders.

 

Turning to look outside once more, he prayed for his friends to appear, but the landscape remained quiet and unchanged, and for a moment Athos found himself cursing the benignly peaceful-looking surroundings. Letting his hand drift to his thigh, he felt the wetness soaking through the linen bandage, confirming what he already knew – he was in no fit state to mount any sort of rescue attempt. Even though he’d counseled d’Artagnan to hope for their friends’ return, he was now fast losing faith that it would happen and faced the harsh reality that the men might have been captured.

 

Drawing a breath, he said, “Yes. Help me onto my horse and then you can begin your advance on the camp. Afterwards, I’ll expect you to return and wait for us here until I can muster additional men.”

 

d’Artagnan looked at him uncertainly, obviously struggling with the difficult decision just as much. “Are you sure there’s no other way. Something I’ve missed, or maybe if we just give them more time…” he trailed off.

 

Athos shook his head firmly, “No, it is time.”

 

“So I guess there was no reason to hope after all,” the Gascon mumbled softly, but the older man still heard him.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos countered, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “While hope alone is not a strategy, it _is_ necessary to provide one with the courage needed to act.”

 

The Gascon held his friend’s gaze for several long moments before tilting his head in understanding. Carefully, d’Artagnan positioned himself under Athos’ arm and they made their way outside into the sun, moving around the back of the building where the horses were tethered out of sight of anyone who might pass by. Once the older man was in the saddle, d’Artagnan followed him around the side of the shack and toward the road to see his friend off.

 

As the young man was reaching a hand up to Athos to wish him well, their farewell was interrupted by someone calling to them from the treeline, “Going somewhere without us?”

 

Porthos’ booming voice had never sounded so good, and both men’s heads swivelled to see him and Aramis crossing the distance between them. d’Artagnan’s face split into a wide grin at the sight, faltering only slightly as he realized that the marksman was being supported by the other man. “Aramis is hurt,” he blurted out before he could curb the thought, and he heard Athos humming in agreement above him.

 

The Gascon glanced up at the older man’s face, but didn’t see any undue concern there so he turned back and watched the others’ progress as he waited for them to arrive. Aramis was slightly out of breath and favoring his left leg, but he seemed to be in good spirits despite the obvious pain he was in.

 

“What happened?” Athos asked once they were close enough, Porthos continuing to steady the other man.

 

Aramis looked away sheepishly, clearly not wanting to answer, and it was the larger man who replied. “Had a little trouble as we were pullin’ back.” He threw a kindly glance toward the marksman, who was still refusing to meet either Athos or d’Artagnan’s gaze, “Aramis stepped into a gopher hole and hurt his ankle. No big deal.”

 

The older Musketeer’s eyes turned to Aramis, noting his embarrassment, and he gave a small nod, “I’m glad you’re both alright.” The sincerity in Athos’ tone had the marksman looking up and smiling shyly, grateful that his friend hadn’t made a big deal out of things. “Are you able to ride?”

 

Aramis dipped his chin, “Yes, it’s not broken, just sprained I think.”

 

Athos’ lips quirked at the good news, unable to hide his relief that the man hadn’t suffered anything more serious. “Were you able to collect the information we need?” d’Artagnan interjected, keen to ensure the mission had been completed.

 

“Aye, we’ve got what we need,” Porthos replied as he moved Aramis a few steps closer to Athos so that he could lean against the older man’s horse. Making sure that the marksman was steady before removing his support, the larger man called back over his shoulder, “Should be an entertaining time when we come back.”

 

d’Artagnan threw a questioning glance to Aramis as Porthos disappeared around the side of the building, ostensibly to collect the rest of their mounts. “They seem well organized and have an ample supply of weaponry. The force that returns will need to be careful; this is no ordinary group of bandits,” the marksman explained, his tone grim.

 

“Then we should make haste to bring this information back to the Captain,” Athos remarked, his eyes tracking Porthos’ progress toward them. His voice was tinged with an urgency that seemed to be infectious and they mounted quickly, Porthos once more assisting the marksman. Setting off at once, they adopted a pace that the two hurt men could manage. Luckily, they were only a couple hours outside of Paris, and even at the slower speed, they made the journey in just under three. 

* * *

“You should sit down,” Aramis stated, his tone growing harder as his patience waned. Athos scowled in his friend’s direction as he continued his slow pacing, leaning on whatever piece of furniture was nearby as his wounded leg protested. “Athos,” the medic’s tone was sharp and the older man recognized the warning bite, knowing that Aramis could and would report him to Treville, ensuring that Athos would be off duty for a longer period of time. Grudgingly, he turned and made his way to a chair, lowering himself into it gingerly in deference to his stitched thigh.

 

Aramis exhaled audibly, grateful that his stubborn fool of a friend had finally listened to reason. It was only an hour past dawn and Athos had been pacing for at least half that time, ever since they’d watched a dozen of their brothers-in-arms ride through the garrison gates to arrest the bandits they’d surveilled the previous day. Normally, an event of this sort would be little cause for concern, but this time Porthos and d’Artagnan were among those deployed, and Athos seemed especially anxious about the four of them being apart.

 

“Athos,” Aramis stated reasonably, “there is no reason to believe that anything will happen to them.”

 

Athos looked up quickly from the examination of his hands in his lap, realizing a moment later that he shouldn’t be the least bit surprised that the marksman knew exactly what – or who – was occupying his thoughts.

 

“I’m not worried,” the older man countered, recognizing a moment later how petulant he sounded.

 

Aramis’ expression softened as he concurred, “Of course not, you’re simply impatient to have them back so we can eat lunch.”

 

Athos’ rigid posture relaxed minutely at his friend’s teasing, knowing that the marksman was likely just as concerned as he was, but had resigned himself to waiting patiently since there was nothing either of them could do about the situation. When they’d returned to the garrison late the previous afternoon, the older Musketeer had insisted on reporting to Treville before having his leg tended. Aramis had put his foot down at that point, and had ordered d’Artagnan to first assist Athos to the infirmary, and then to bring the Captain to them. The medic’s ire was such by then that not even the older man dared to refuse, fearing the pain of having his wound cared for by his irate friend.

 

When Treville had heard the men’s report, he decided immediately on a mission to arrest the bandits the following day, and Porthos and d’Artagnan were included due to their familiarity with the area. No amount of protest on Athos’ part, or charming pleading on Aramis’ part, was able to convince the Captain to change his mind. And so it was that they found themselves in Aramis’ quarters, the older man pacing like a caged tiger, as they waited for their friends to return safely.

 

“It’s just that I hate waiting,” Athos finally mumbled, Aramis smiling indulgently at him.

 

“Of course you do,” the marksman replied. “Waiting is the worst part and yet we spend a great deal of our lives doing just that. Waiting to grow up, waiting for love to find us, and waiting for the seasons to change. When you think about it, it’s a miracle than anything ever gets done.”

 

Athos looked at his friend in disbelief so Aramis changed his tact. “We just need to hope that they’ll be alright.”

 

The familiarity of his friend’s words struck the older man, and his breath caught for a moment before he replied, “But hope is not a strategy.”

 

The marksman’s brow furrowed momentarily as he considered his friend’s words, “No, but it gives us the faith to believe that things will turn out well, and it is that which we know need to hold onto now.”

 

Athos gave a slow nod as he digested the words, again marvelling at the parallels to the conversation he and d’Artagnan had had the day prior. “Very well, then, let us hope,” he agreed as he sat back in his chair, Aramis doing the same.

 

As if aware of their friends’ worries, the Musketeers made short work of the bandits’ camp, bringing back with them five prisoners to stand trial, the others having been either killed or run off when the fighting had begun. It was just a few minutes before the bell would sound for the midday meal when Athos spotted the first man riding through the garrison gates. Aramis huffed in annoyance as he pushed himself up from his chair to follow the older man who was already moving through the open door.

 

The marksman caught up to his friend outside on the balcony where, together, they watched all of the men filing into the courtyard, both of them scanning the riders’ faces in search of the only two that currently mattered to them. As soldiers began to dismount and disperse, Athos’ chest tightened, his concerns ratcheting skywards with every second that passed until, finally, two particular riders appeared.

 

“They’re back,” Aramis breathed out, obviously just as scared for their friends as Athos. The older man gave a short nod as he made his way to the stairs, leaning heavily on the handrail as he descended, his leg throbbing with the activity he was forcing upon it. Aramis followed in his wake, limping with the ache that spiked with each shift of his weight onto his injured ankle.

 

As Athos stepped down into the courtyard, Treville appeared before him, a quizzical expression on his face. “Should you be up and walking around?” the Captain asked, his gaze darting to the medic who by now had arrived and was standing just behind the older man.

 

“It’s only for a short while, Sir,” Aramis explained. “We just wanted to come down and welcome Porthos and d’Artagnan back.”

 

Treville glanced at his lieutenant, reading the underlying concern behind the man’s composed façade. Nodding, he said, “Since you’re here, I’ll leave it in your hands to make sure they get their wounds taken care of.”

 

“They’re hurt?” Athos asked sharply, his body shifting slightly to one side as he tried to peer around the Captain in an effort to see the two men.

 

“It’s nothing serious, but will become so if left untended,” Treville replied.

 

“You can be certain we won’t allow that to happen,” Aramis promised. Confident that the medic could be relied upon to take care of the two injured men, the Captain stepped around Athos and ascended the stairs.

 

Once more free to move, Athos wove his way through the throng of men until he was standing in front of their friends, his expression suspicious as he watched them casually leaning against their horses. “Welcome back,” he began. “I trust the mission went well?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded enthusiastically while Porthos grinned and said, “Just as planned. You know how it is – bandits ain’t no match for Musketeers.” The Gascon smiled broadly at the large man’s statement, agreeing wholeheartedly.

 

“So, no injuries to report?” Aramis asked. He’d been examining the two men as closely as possible, without being obvious, but so far had no idea of their wounds.

 

“Nah,” Porthos answered. “Just the usual assortment of nicks and bruises. Nothing to be concerned about.”

 

“How about you, d’Artagnan,” Athos queried. “Anything to report.”

 

A furtive glance in Porthos’ direction had the young man shaking his head, “No, nothing to report.”

 

“Then why is it that the Captain asked us to ensure you had your wounds tended?” Aramis asked, the relaxed demeanor from before evaporating as his gaze hardened.

 

Porthos faltered and looked to Athos for help, but the older man wore a similar expression to the medic’s. Recognizing that there was no way they would be able to convince their friends of their good health, Porthos relented, “d’Artagnan’s got a slice across his ribs that’ll need Aramis’ needlework.”

 

With a look of betrayal on his face, the Gascon quickly jumped in to add, “And Porthos took a pistol butt to the head; we couldn’t wake him up for nearly five minutes.”

 

Porthos flashed the young man a dirty look as he muttered under his breath, “Traitor.”

 

“Gentlemen, I think it’s high time we took this inside,” Aramis interjected, recognizing the signs of pain in his friends’ faces and feeling his ankle protesting as well. “You’re in luck because I have everything necessary to deal with your injuries in my room.” With a sweeping motion of one hand, he indicated that Porthos and d’Artagnan should lead the way. As the two wearily trudged toward the stairs, Aramis leaned closer to Athos, “You know, I always hope they’ll be honest about their injuries.” The older man gave a sage nod of understanding. “But when they aren’t, waiting is a pretty effective strategy, too.”

 

Athos couldn’t help the short bark of laughter at the medic’s words, as he considered their accuracy. Hope might not be a strategy, but it was necessary to their existence – how else would one cope with a group of such stubborn, loyal men?

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this month's Fête des Mousquetaires challenge theme, which is based on the Dumas' quote: "All human wisdom is contained in these words: Wait and hope!" For information about how to participate, as a writer or to vote, please see the forum page on fanfiction.net under Musketeers. Thanks to AZGirl for her speedy beta of this story; remaining mistakes are all mine.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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